chapter xvi

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    There was a built-up path through the flooded fields, but it was submerged to ankle-depth, with occasional thigh-high slippages.

    Only the raised al drains stood well above the brackish water, and they all ran towards the east, not towards the village, so Sabriel and Touchstone were forced to wade along the path. Mogget, of course, rode, his lean form draped around Sabriel’s neck like a white fox fur.

    Water and mud, coupled with an uain path, made it slow going. It took an hour to cover less than a mile, so it was later iernoon than Sabriel would have wished when they finally climbed out of the water, up onto the beginnings of the village’s rocky mount. At least the sky is clear, Sabriel thought, glang up. The winter sun wasn’t particularly hot and couldn’t be described as glaring, but it would certainly deter most kindred of the Lesser Dead from venturing out.

    heless, they walked carefully up to the village, swords loose, Sabriel with a hand to her bells. The path wound up in a series of steps carved from the rock, reinforced here and there with bricks and mortar. The village proper led on top of the bluff—about thirty cozy ></a>brick cottages, with wood-tile roofs, some painted bright colors, some dull, and some simply grey aherbeaten.

    It was pletely silent, save for the odd gust of wind, or the mournful cry of a gull, slipping down through the air above. Sabriel and Touchstone drew clether, walking almost shoulder-to-shoulder up assed for a main street, swords out now, eyes flickering across closed doors and shuttered windows.

    Both felt uneasy, nervous—a nasty, tingling, creepiion climbing up from spio nape of neck, to forehead Charter mark.

    Sabriel also felt the presence of Dead things.

    Lesser Dead, hiding from sunlight, lurking  somewhere nearby, in house or cellar.

    At the end of the main street, on the highest point of the bluff, a Charter Stoood on a patch of carefully tended lawn. Half of the stone had been sheared aieces broken and tumbled, dark stone ourf. A body lay in front of the stone, hands a bound, the gaping cut across the throat a clear sign of where the blood had e from—the blood for the sacrifice that broke the stone.

    Sabriel k by the corpse, eyes averted from the broken sto was only retly ruined, she felt, but already the door to Death was creaking open. She could almost feel the cold of the currents beyond, leaking out around the stone, sug warmth and life from the air.

    Things lurked there too, she knew, just beyond the border. She seheir hunger for life, their impatience fht to fall.

    As she expected, the corpse was of a Charter Mage, dead but three or four days. But she hadn’t expected to find the dead person was a woman.

    Wide shoulders and a muscular build had deceived her for a moment, but there was a middleaged woman before her, eyes shut, throat cut, short brown hair caked with sea salt and blood.

    “The village healer,” said Mogget, indig a bracelet on her wrist with his nose. Sabriel pushed the rope bindings aside for a better look. The bracelet was broh inlaid Charter marks of greenstone. Dead marks now, for blood dried upon the bronze, and no pulse beat in the skin uhe metal.

    “She was killed three or four days ago,”

    Sabriel announced. “The stone was broken at the same time.”

    Touchstone looked back at her and nodded grimly, then resumed watg the houses opposite. His swords hung loosely in his hands, but Sabriel noticed that his entire body was tense, like a pressed ja-the-box, ready t.

    “Whoever . . . whatever . . . killed her and broke the stone, didn’t enslave her spirit,”

    Sabriel added quietly, as if thinking to herself.

    “I wonder why?”

    her Mogget nor Touchstone answered.

    For a moment, Sabriel sid<s>?</s>ered asking the woman herself, but her impetuous desire for journeys into Death had been soundly dampened by ret experience. Instead, she cut the woman’s bonds, and arranged her as best she  could, ending up with a sort of curled-up sleeping position.

    “I don’t know your name, Healer,” Sabriel whispered. “But I hope you go quickly beyond the Final Gate. Farewell.”

    She stood bad drew the Charter marks for the funeral pyre above the corpse, whispering the names of the marks as she did so—but her fingers fumbled and words went awry. The baleful influence of the broken stone pressed against her, like a wrestler gripping her wrists, clamping her jaw. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and pain shot through her limbs, her hands shaking with effort, tongue clumsy, seeming swollen in her suddenly dry mouth.

    Then she felt assistane, strength flowing through her, reinf the marks, steadying her hands, clearing her voice. She pleted the litany, and a spark exploded above the woman, became a twisting flame, theo a fierce, white-hot blaze that spread the length of the woman’s body, totally ing it, to leave only ash, light cargo for the sea winds.

    The extra strength came through Touchstone’s hand, his open palm lightly resting on her shoulder.

    As she straightened up, the touch was lost.

    When Sabriel turned around, Touchstone was just drawing his right-hand sword, eyes fixed on the houses—as if he’d had nothing to do with helping her.

    “Thank you,” said Sabriel. Touchstone was a strong Charter Mage, perhaps as strong as she was. This surprised her, though she couldn’t think why. He’d made  of being a Charter Mage—she’d just assumed he would only know a few of the more fightied marks and spells. Petty magics.

    “We should move on,” said Mogget, prowling backwards and forwards in agitation, carefully avoiding the fragments from the broken stone.

    “Find a boat, and put to sea before nightfall.”

    “The harbor is that way,” Touchstone added quickly, pointing with his sword. Both he and the cat seemed very keen to leave the area around the broken stohought Sabriel. But then, so was she. Even in bright daylight, it seemed to dull the color around it. The lawn was already more yellow than green, and even the shadows looked thicker and more abundant than they should. She shivered, remembering Clove and the thing called Thralk.

    The harbor lay on the northern side of the <samp></samp> bluff, reached by another series of steps in the rocky hill, or in the case of cargo, via one of the shear-legged hoists that lihe edge of the bluff. Long woodeies thrust out into the clear blue-green water, sheltered uhe lee of a rocky island, a smaller sibling of the village bluff. A long breakwater of huge boulders joined island and shore, pleting the harbor’s prote from wind and wave.

    There were no boats moored in the harbor, tied up to the jetties, or at the harbor wall. Not even a dinghy, hauled up for repair. Sabriel stood oeps, looking down, mind temporarily devoid of further plans. She just watched the swirl of the sea around the barnacled piles of the jetties; the moving shadows in the blue, marking small fish schooling about their business.

    Mogget sat near her feet, sniffing the air, silent.

    Touchstoood higher, behind her, guarding the rear.

    “What now?” asked Sabriel, generally indig the empty harbor below, her arm moving with the same rhythm as the swell, in its perpetual tilt against wood and stone.

    “There are people on the island,” Mogget said, eyes slitted against the wind. “And boats  tied up betweewo outcrops of ro the southwest.”

    Sabriel looked, but saw nothing, till she extracted the telescope from the pa Touchstone’s back. He stood pletely still while she ferreted around, silent as the empty village. Playing wooden again, Sabriel thought, but she didn’t really mind. He was being helpful, without metaphorically tugging his forelock every few minutes.

    Through the telescope, she saw that Mogget was right. There were several boats partly hiddeween two spurs of rock, and some slight signs of habitation: a glimpse of a washing line, blown around the er of a tall rock; the momentary sight of movemeween two of the six or seven ramshackle wooden buildings that led on the island’s south-western side.

    Shifting her gaze to the breakwater, Sabriel followed its length. As she’d half expected, there  in the very middle of it, where the sea rushed through with siderable force. A pile of timber on the island side of the breakwater indicated that there had once been a bridge there, now removed.

    “It looks like the villagers fled to the island,”

    she said, shutting the telescope down. “There’s a gap in the breakwater, to keep running water between the island and shore. An ideal defense against the Dead. I don’t think even a Mordit would risk crossiidal water—”

    “Let’s go then,” muttered Touchstone. He sounded nervous again, jumpy. Sabriel looked at him, then above his head, and saw why he was nervous. Clouds were rolling in from the southeast, behind the village—dark clouds, laden with rain. The air was calm, but now she saw the clouds, Sabriel reized it was the calm before heavy rain. The sun would not be guarding them for very much longer and night would be an early guest.

    Without further urging, she set off doweps, down to the harborside, then along to the breakwater. Touchstone followed more slowly, turning every few steps to watch the rear. Mogget did likewise, his small cat-face tinually looking back, peering up at the houses.

    Behind them, shutters inched open and fleshless eyes watched from the safety of shadows, watched the trio marg out to the breakwater, still washed in harsh sunlight, flanked by swiftmoving waves of terrible water. Rotten, corroded  teeth ground and gnashed ial mouths.

    Farther back from the windows, shadows darker than ones ever cast by light whirled in frustration, anger—and fear. They all knew who had passed.

    One such shadow, selected by lot and pelled by its peers, gave up its existen Life with a silent scream, vanishing into Death. Their master was many, many leagues away, and the quickest way to reach him lay ih. Of course, message delivered, the messenger would fall through the Gates to a final demise. But the master didn’t care about that.

    The gap in the breakwater proved to be at least fiftee wide, and the water was twice Sabriel’s height, the sea surging through with a rough aggression. It was also covered by archers from the island, as they discovered when an arrow struck the stones in front of them and skittered off into the sea.

    Instantly, Touchstone rushed in front of Sabriel, and she felt the flow of Charter Magi him, his swords sketg a great circle in the air in front of them both. Glowing lines followed the swords’ path, till a shining circle hung in the air.

    Four arrows curved through the air from the island. Oriking the circle, simply vanished.

    The other three missed pletely, striking stones or sea.

    “Arrow ward,” gasped Touchstone. “Effective, but hard to keep going. Do we retreat?”

    “Not yet,” replied Sabriel. She could feel the Dead stirring in the village behind them and she could also see the archers now. There were four of them, two pairs, each behind one of the large, upthrust stohat marked where the breakwater joihe island. They looked young, nervous and were already proven to be of little threat.

    “Hold!” shouted Sabriel. “We are friends!”

    There was no reply, but the archers didn’t loose their nocked arrows.

    “What’s the village leader’s title—usually, I mean? What are they called?” Sabriel whispered hurriedly to Touchstone, once again wishing she knew more about the Old Kingdom and its s.

    “In my day . . .” Touchstone replied slowly, his swords retrag the arrow ward, attention mostly on that, “in my day—Elder—for this size of village.”

    “We wish to speak with your Elder!” shouted Sabriel. She poi the cloud-front advang behind her, and added, “Before darkness falls!”

    “Wait!” came the answer, and one of the archers scampered back from the rocks, up towards the buildings. Closer to, Sabriel realized they were probably boathouses or something like that.

    The archer returned in a few minutes, an older man hobbling over the rocks behind him. The other three archers, seeing him, lowered their bows aurned shafts to quivers. Touchstone, seeing this, ceased to maintain the arrow ward. It hung in the air for a moment, then dissipated, leaving a momentary rainbow.

    The Elder was named in fact, as well as title, they saw, as he limped along the breakwater. Long white hair blew like fragile cobwebs around his thin, wrinkled face, and he moved with the deliberate iion of the very old. He seemed unafraid, perhaps possessed of the disied ce of one already close to death.

    “Who are you?” he asked, when he reached the gap, standing above the swirling waters like some pro<big></big>phet of legend, his deep e cloak flapping around him from the rising breeze.

    “What do you want?”

    Sabriel opened her mouth to answer, but  Touchstone had already started to spea<q>..</q>k. Loudly.

    “I am Touchstone, sworn swordsman for the Abhorsen, who stands before you. Are arrows your wele for such folk as we?”

    The old man was silent for a moment, his deep-set eyes focused on Sabriel, as if he could strip away any falsity or illusion by sight alone.

    Sabriel met his gaze, but out of the er of her mouth she whispered to Touchstone.

    “What makes you think you  speak for me? Wouldn’t a friendly approach be better? And since when are you my sworn—”

    She stopped, as the old man cleared his throat to speak and spat into the water. For a moment, she thought that this was his response, but as her the archers nor Touchstoed, it was obviously of no at.

    “These are bad times,” the Elder said. “We have been forced to leave our firesides for the smoking sheds, warmth and fort for seawinds and the stench of fish. Many of the people of owe are dead—or worse. Strangers and travelers are rare in such times, and not always what they seem.”

    “I am the Abhorsen,” Sabriel said, relutly.

    “Enemy of the Dead.”

    “I remember,” replied the old man, slowly.

    “Abhorsen came here when I was a young man. He came to put down the haunts that the spice mert brought, Charter curse him.

    Abhorsen. I remember that coat you’re wearing, blue as a ten-fathom sea, with the silver keys. There was a sword, also . . .”

    He paused, expetly. Sabriel stood, silently, waiting for him to go on.

    “He wants to see the sword,” Touchstone said, voice flat, after the sileretched too far.

    “Oh,” replied Sabriel, flushing.

    It was quite obvious. Carefully, so as not to alarm the archers, she drew her sword, holding it up to the sun, so the Charter marks could clearly be seen, silver dancers on the blade.

    “Yes,” sighed the Elder, old shoulders sagging with relief. “That is the sword. Charter-spelled.

    She is the Abhorsen.”

    He turned and tottered back towards the archers, worn voicreasing to the ghost of a fisherman’s cross-water hail. “e on, you four. Quick with the bridge. We have visitors! Help at last!”

    Sabriel gla Touchstone, raising her eyebrows at the implication of the old man’s  last three words. Surprisingly, Touet her gaze, and held it.

    “It is traditional for someone of high rank, such as yourself, to be announced by their sworn swordsman,” he said quietly. “And the only acceptable way for me to travel with you is as your sworn swordsman. Otherwise, people will assume that we are, at best, illicit lovers. Having your name coupled to mine in such a guise would lower you in most eyes. You see?”

    “Ah,” replied Sabriel, gulping, feeling the flush of embarrassment e bad spread from her cheeks to her neck. It felt a lot like being on the receiving end of one of Miss Prionte’s severest social put-downs. She hadn’t even thought about how it would look, the two of them traveling together. Certainly, in Aierre, it would be sidered shameful, but this was the Old Kingdom, where things were different. But only some things, it seemed.

    “Lesson two hundred and seven,” muttered Mogget from somewhere near her feet. “Three out of ten. I wonder if they’ve got any freshcaught whiting? I’d like a small oill flopping—”

    “Be quiet!” Sabriel interrupted. “You’d better  pretend to be a normal cat for a while.”

    “Very well, milady. Abhorsen,” Mogget replied, stalking away to sit oher side of Touchstone.

    Sabriel was about to reply scathingly when she saw the fai curve at the er of Touchstone’s mouth. Touchstone? Grinning? Surprised, she misplaced the retort oohen fot it altogether, as the four archers heaved a plank across the gap, the end smag down onto stoh a startling bang.

    “Please cross quickly,” the Elder said, as the men steadied the plank. “There are many fell creatures in the village now, and I fear the day is almost done.”

    True to his words, cloud-shadow fell across them as he spoke, and the fresh st of closing rain mingled with the wet and salty smell of the sea. Without further urging, Sabriel ran quickly across the plank, Mogget behiouchstone bringing up the rear.

百度搜索 Sabriel (The Abhorsen Trilogy) 天涯 或 Sabriel (The Abhorsen Trilogy) 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.